Black Magic

Chapter Seventeen

Monday evening, at 9:30 on the dot, I walk into the gymnasium to find Sixten already waiting for me. He's sitting in lotus position on a blue mat, eyes closed and expression soft and serene, one hand resting over the other in his lap. For a moment I just stand there watching; he's so still, the only hint of movement a slight shifting of his chest as he breathes. Like a marble statue.

I take a step further into the room—and his eyes flash open, bright silver staring at me so suddenly I have to stifle a gasp. Sixten smiles, his posture relaxing slightly. "Hello, Desdemona." In one fluid, graceful motion he stands, running a hand over his hair. "Are you feeling better?" He's a lot less . . . intense, than the last time I saw him. Less sharp around the edges, the harsh brightness in his eyes dimmed down to a softer light.

"Yeah." Physically, definitely. The mild but persistent headache is mostly gone, and the leftover bruises have all but faded. A tight, writhing ball of anxiety is still latched close to my spine, clawing against the insides of my ribs. But that's why I'm here. Even when I was young—when I had no real force to fear, just a vague sense of needing to be prepared—learning how to fight always made me feel better. Safer. More in control of myself. I reach behind my head, twirling my braid into a messy bun to keep it out of the way. "I'm ready. Let's do this."

Sixten's mouth turns up in a smile, his eyes bright and warm. "As you wish." He beckons me closer, stepping back on the mat to give me space, the traces of his smile still lingering in the corners of his eyes. Then I step fully onto the mat, and his entire presence changes. His eyes become hard and determined, the muscles in his body tensing, the smile wiped clean. "We'll start with basic forms."

I furrow my brow, matching my stance to Sixten's nonetheless. "I know this already."

My body jolts as Sixten moves closer in the blink of an eye. He corrects my stance, moving and positioning my limbs with slight nudges and taps in the right direction. "It's been a while since you've trained; you'll need a refresher." He steps back, eyes sweeping over me, appraising and calculative. "And you're still recovering."

He makes a loose grab for me and I block it, stumbling a little. It should be an easy block, but my arms waver, not quite knowing the right position. "I told you, I feel fine." Sixten makes another attack—deliberately weak and sloppy, but my block isn't confident enough and my heartrate jumps when I trip back a step.

Sixten stares at me, unblinking. "Indulge me."

The next several dozen tries go about the same. Sixten attacks and I do my best to block or counter, but despite how much stronger my body feels my movements are hesitant and a half-step too slow. Every few minutes Sixten makes a comment, correcting my stance, offering advice, commending me when I do something right. It's—it's infuriating. I know I should be able to do this, I know what my body is capable of—what it used to be capable of, before I lost five months of practice—and I just can't make it follow the motions I know are right.

Another unsteady block nearly sends me toppling to the floor. I catch myself just in time to notice that Sixten is coming at me again and I'm just so angry and the darkness growls in my chest, frustrated with myself and my weakness—and suddenly I see the deliberate mistakes in Sixten's movement, how he's slightly off-balance, how easy it would be to push him over that edge.

When I counter him, he stumbles just a moment before his true skill takes over and he rights himself. I step back, breathing hard, entire body tensed as I wait for him to attack again.

Instead of attacking, he nods, and I see a smile pushing through the harsh silver of his eyes. "Well done." He attacks again—still sloppy, still deliberately clumsy—but this time I block it properly. Everything is—sharper, now, in higher definition. My body is controlled, my movements tighter, and the gleam of pride in Sixten's face only makes me feel more powerful. "Your body knows what to do. But you're unsure, and that's why you were sloppy." He attacks again—I counter, almost getting in a jab to his abdomen before his hand moves lightning-fast to block it. "If you just trust your body, it'll do what you want it to."